PIGACHM
by Elendraug
Summary: You mean nothing at all to me. femmeslash. citrine and pellegri.


xenosaga. citrine & pellegri. set during chapter eight of episode iii. R. characters belong to NAMCO/monolith soft.

**PIGACHM**

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_ elendraug: okay so we've established  
__elendraug: that  
__elendraug: ...pleroma is gone  
e__lendraug: and citrine hates men  
__xel: Yes.  
__elendraug: IT'S A START  
__xel: it's more than we had 8D  
__elendraug: it is!  
__elendraug: seven words  
__elendraug: that's the title  
__elendraug: PIGACHM _

_-_

_-_

The E.S. Issachar skids to a halt on the dusky-blood floor of the i Merkabah /i , its pilot disembarking in a mad rush and nearly leaping to the ledge. Dr. Sellers hovers, haughty smirk imagined before she ever sees it. Her heels clack as she runs, and Sellers whirls the chair to face her.

"_You!_" she hisses, already brandishing a spear.

"Me," he replies lazily, seemingly unconcerned with the entire world. "What's annoyed you this time, Pellegri? Your misplaced anger is less than charming, as usual."

"For too long you have plagued us with your presence, Sellers. Too long you have sold our secrets for your own benefit." She glares, eyes narrowed in concentration as she takes aim. "We have grown tired of you, and I will dispose of you like the useless trash you are!"

The spear is on-target, but with the distance and the hoverchair's slight movements, it only scrapes his arm, tearing his sleeve instead of driving through his ribcage. He laughs, mocking her behind mirrored glasses, and chokes as bullets rip through his throat.

The spear clatters to the ground hundreds of feet below.

Her business is done, and she leaves the chair and its floating corpse behind her. The matter is of no further concern. Another concern, however, presents itself before she can reach her craft: a female soldier striding confidently and courageously into the room, rifle pointed in her direction.

"Get out or I'll kill you," she says, eyes golden like a realian's. "I may well kill you anyway."

Pistol trained on the soldier's forehead, Pellegri circles around her and backs towards her E.S. "I'm finished here. You mean nothing to me."

She jabs the rifle's muzzle into the Inquisitor's side and snarls. "That's too bad. To me, you're already a breach of security, and likely a potential threat. State your purpose, or I'll fire."

Pellegri tosses her head, agitated and arrogant as always. "I came here solely to kill that man. It's over, and doesn't involve you."

She snorts, mildly amused. "Is that all? I've wanted him dead for years. He's an egotistical bastard, and enough of a security threat on his own. Or was." She doesn't turn to look; her gaze remains intensely fixed on her opponent. "We had no further need for him, either."

A raised eyebrow. "Have I done you a favor, then?"

"Give me that pistol and I'll give you credit for it."

Silently, Pellegri hands her the gun. This soldier has no motivation for killing her, she's willing to gamble on that. Taking risks is nothing new to her life; she fought for the Federation too, after all.

Without taking her eyes off Pellegri, the Salvator guard crouches and sets both firearms down, shoving them slightly behind her. She stands, and within seconds, they've both grabbed the knives at their thighs and are grappling with each other, blades pressed against their necks. They struggle -- both relentless, both stubborn -- until Pellegri rolls her eyes and drops the dagger.

"Utter foolishness."

"Pointless."

"Unnecessary."

"Stupid."

The soldier makes a point of dropping her knife as well, and they shake hands briskly.

"Pellegri, Ormus Inquisitor, former Miltian soldier."

"Citrine, U.R.T.V. Variant, Unit 668."

Pellegri looks at her quizzically. "You didn't die in the Conflict?"

"I could ask you the same thing, now couldn't I?"

"Hmph."

Citrine drops to one knee, an almost anachronistic genuflection as she reverently retrieves the two knives. She hands the appropriate one back to Pellegri, the point intentionally held towards her.

"I'm reluctant to leave these here, just in case. This truce is temporary; I'm trusting you for now. I could use the company."

Pellegri moves to reclaim her pistol, but Citrine grabs her arm instantly.

"The guns stay." She inclines her head towards Sellers' hovering body. "He's not going anywhere with them."

The Inquisitor glances to her E.S., hesitates for a fraction of a second -- more than long enough for Citrine to notice.

"You're not leaving yet, so don't even bother. We both deserve a break. You can't deny that."

She would deny it, should protest and insist that her time is valuable, that delays cannot be allowed, but the U.R.T.V. _is_ right. Rarely, if ever, is she offered a chance for any downtime at all.

They walk in silence to the control room, footsteps echoing in the endless span of the _Merkabah_'s hallways. It's poorly lit, but they can see by the glow of the holoscreens. Citrine glides her fingertips over the keyboard like a pianist, swiftly disengaging the videophone connection. Green reflects in her yellow eyes as she glances sidelong at Pellegri.

"I've disabled the cameras and can claim it was a malfunction. It won't be long before someone notices and tries to check what's wrong, though, so I'll be blunt. I want to fuck you."

Pellegri shifts and crosses her arms over her chest. "Oh?"

Citrine's already started to undo the snaps of her uniform when she clarifies. "I can't shake the feeling that something's going to happen the next time I leave this place. None of the men I've worked with have ever done a thing for me, if you get what I'm saying." She sends her a pointed look. "And it's obvious we're both extremely stressed right now." She shrugs out of the dress-vest and starts on her boots. "I'll offer, I'll ask, but I won't beg."

She would deny it, would decline, if some part of her didn't secretly agree. She _is_ stressed, and she could easily want this. If she misses this chance now, she doubts another opportunity for any sort of interlude will present itself later. Her own impending death is... probable.

"That's fine." Abandoning all worries about appearances, she sits down, leaning against the wall, and tugs her gloves and unzipped boots off, hiking up her dress to pull at the hosiery. She's reminded of her days as a soldier, of changing clothes under tremendous time constraints and with next to no privacy. Before she can even finish getting her dress over her head and out of the way, Citrine's already moved to lean over her, predatory but clearly desperate, nipples peaked through the thin cloth of an unflattering undershirt.

Citrine wastes no time, presents no pretense -- she _wants_, and moves immediately to slide her hands into Pellegri's bra, cupping and sometimes squeezing and stroking in semicircles with her thumbs. She pushes them together and licks at the cleavage, frowning when Pellegri continues to be still.

"Don't hold back. I'm not going to, and I'm not judging you."

As if suddenly snapping awake, Pellegri drags her hands down Citrine's back, pressing her palms into lithe musculature that could be likened to that of any number of extinct animals. Synthetic cloth covers her ass, but Pellegri grabs at it anyway when Citrine's licking turns to sucking and light grazing of teeth. Pellegri gasps a little, then more when she remembers that she doesn't care. Her mouth feels too dry, and a sparking shiver thrills through the pit of her stomach when she pulls Citrine up for a messy, heavy kiss. There's no resistance -- their tongues slide together repeatedly as Citrine shifts to straddle Pellegri's thigh and press her knee to her still-covered clit.

Aggression is a common quality among U-TIC members _and_ U.R.T.V.s, so neither of them are surprised when Pellegri shoves at Citrine and pins her, chests pressed close and Citrine's shoulder blades jutting sharply against the cold linoleum. She lets Pellegri bite at her neck until the shock of it is no longer satisfying. Citrine lifts her shin to rub slowly between Pellegri's spread legs for a moment before kicking her away. She rolls onto her side, stands up, and waits impatiently for her company to do the same.

"Get in the chair."

It's less of a demand than a request, but they're both well-accustomed to giving and receiving orders. Pellegri listens, and -- disregarding any sort of proper posture -- slumps back completely against the accommodating padding. Without any warning, Citrine tugs her underwear down to her ankles and leans in to lick along her slit, saliva further slickening the already wet heat. Pellegri strains to remain still despite the intensity, and digs her fingernails into the arms of the chair, almost puncturing the pleather. The steadily-quickening lapping brings her easily to shuddering orgasm, lifting her hips for more pressure and continued contact until she finally sinks against the chair and tries to catch her breath.

Citrine wipes at her mouth with her arm and watches Pellegri watching her with exhausted, half-lidded eyes. Her balance is a bit off when she first gets up, but the problem is rectified soon enough when she pushes Citrine down, her back on the floor again. Poised over her, she traces her hand down from collarbone to crotch and uses three fingers to touch her, cloth creating extra friction as she rubs through it. When she speeds up, Citrine's breath hitches, and Pellegri switches hands to maintain the stimulation through her release. Citrine bucks into it, chest heaving, and tenses for a long while before she, too, collapses.

They have no time nor mental desire for any further affectionate closeness, but regardless, they curl together for shared body warmth and extended physical intimacy for a short while. The room is cold, their heads pillowed on nothing but unsupportive, flat flooring, and it's tough to really savor the slight comfort the moment brings. They force themselves to stand, despite their bodies aching for sleep, and wordlessly reassemble their clothing. Citrine pauses before switching the cameras back on.

"You really are very pretty," she says, trying so hard not to sound awkward.

Pellegri smiles a little. "Thank you." She picks up Citrine's discarded headband and places it back on her, gently fixing her hair around it. "You, too." She kisses her quickly and faintly tastes herself. "Good luck with everything."

Citrine laughs a little and repeats it back. "Thanks. You, too."

As an afterthought, Citrine salutes her; Pellegri returns it. They meet each other's eyes a final time, and both nod.

Their fifteen minutes are over.

The _Merkabah_'s monitoring system is once again online, and the E.S. Issachar leaves in a burst of energy.

Sellers goes nowhere.


End file.
